


A Rustling of the Curtain

by captainboise



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, ghostlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-02
Updated: 2013-10-02
Packaged: 2017-12-28 06:12:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/988655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainboise/pseuds/captainboise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has a painful encounter with the paranormal three years after Sherlock's fall, and an idle gun is relieved of its dust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Rustling of the Curtain

Like long, slender fingers trailing the back of his neck, John felt a chill in the room. He nestled farther down into his armchair and sipped his tea. _Sherlock_. The name had a bad habit of entering his head like a shiver, disrupting his thoughts and leaving him uneasy. He glanced over at the remains of last night’s take-out. The crumbled pieces of an uneaten fortune cookie obscured the ribbon of paper, mocking John in its false prophecy: You will soon be visited by an old friend.

 _Yeah, a ghost. Just what I need right now,_ John thought spitefully. _Though it would be funny to see Sherlock try to rationalize his own existence._ He laughed a bit before the pain in his chest caused him to grimace. Three years since. He’d given up on seeing the therapist about a year in. She’d told him to move out of 221B. He’d told her to sod off. She wasn’t helping him, and it freed up some money for gambling. They’d left off at stage four – depression. He hated the word “depression” because it made his pain sound like a chemical imbalance, sadness without reason. That was not what John was experiencing. The loss of a best friend, of more than that. Someone who could make civilian life infinitely more exciting and dangerous than war ever was. A man who was dangerous himself, in that he could make John feel more deeply than he ever thought possible... _Oh look, now I’m spouting clichés. I guess I should go to bed._  

John limped into the bedroom, pausing to rest his cane against the nightstand before gently lowering himself onto the bed to lie on his side. Another night. Half the bed cold as always. No, colder than usual. He pulled the covers closer, shivering slightly in his pajamas. 

“John.” 

_Oh god. Auditory hallucinations._

Fingers on the nape of his neck.

_Tactile hallucinations. Just ignore them._

“John.”

He sat upright and dropped his legs over the side of the bed, tears stinging his tired eyes. _I guess tonight is another sofa night. My leg’s going to hate me in the morning._

“Please. It’s me,” now the coldness enveloped John, a heaviness resting against his back and left shoulder.

He turned his head towards the source of the cold, afraid of how serious his psychosis might be, and was upset but not surprised to see a glimpse of curled brown locks softly emanating light on his shoulder. Further down were arms in a blue striped silk dressing gown wrapped tight around his chest. Slender hands rested over his heart. _I’ve gone completely mad. No more ghost stories before bed, John. You’re too suggestible._ John shook his head and rubbed his forehead, scrunching his face to try to end the hallucination.

“I’m real, I swear,” the weight lifted from John’s body. He breathed shallowly. _No, you’re not._

“John, look at me.”

Speaking aloud this time, John replied, “No. You’re not real. You’re a symptom of my grief. I’ll get a prescription in the morning and you’ll be gone for good.” He stood up to leave the room.

The voice continued more quietly now, timid, “I’m frightened.” John paused, turning to face the apparition for the first time. His suspicion was confirmed. Sherlock. But there was something different, besides the soft glow. Sherlock looked frail, bewildered, terrified, like an abandoned child in a war zone. Every muscle in John’s body strained to embrace and comfort the specter, to let him fall asleep in John’s arms and know he was safe. But the soldier stood firmly in the doorway, unmoving.

“Everything I knew to be fact – science, things I can see and touch and test – I can’t trust anymore.  Not since...” the ghost seemed to quiver, “I don’t know what’s happening, John. I'm frightened.” It was like Dartmoor all over again. No, worse.

“Even if you _are_ real,” _I’ve really lost it, haven’t I?_ John’s voice grew more forceful, as if to shake himself out of his delirium,“what could I possibly do to help? I mean you’re already dead,” he sharply turned his head away, frowning. He was angry. Angry with Sherlock for dying, angry with himself for thinking he’d be fine without a therapist.

The specter hesitated  “You can do what I did for you.”

“What, leave me?” John bellowed, his body shaking in anger, “Because that’s all you ever did for me. Come into my life, throw it into chaos, and then disappear.”

“I saved your life.”

“What?” John’s anger faltered.

“There was a sniper aimed at you. If I didn’t jump, you, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson – you’d all be dead.”

“No,” John slumped against the doorframe, “No.”

“I believe you still keep your pistol in the desk drawer?”

John shook his head, “Apparently I’m suicidal as well as mad. Brilliant.”

“Please” the vision glowed weaker. He walked over to John and clasped his hand.

“Then prove to me you’re real.” John muttered, leaning in to rest his head against his partner’s chest.

Sherlock took a step back and looked directly into John’s eyes, voice stronger now, “There’s something you should have known a long time ago. Something important. I was going to propose to you, before... that day. I gave the ring to Mycroft to hold on to for me, worried I might lose it or that you might find it. Call Mycroft. He’ll tell you if I’m lying.”

John was caught completely off-guard and could only respond lamely, “But it’s the middle of the night.  I can’t call him.”

“He won’t mind.”

John searched Sherlock’s eyes for a long time, but the blue-green irises stood resolute, unwavering. Hesitatingly, John picked up his phone and dialed. After a couple of rings, there was some scuffling before a sleepy “Hello?”

“It’s John.”

“Of course it is; I _am_ capable of reading a name off my phone, no matter how asleep I was before you called,” there was a muffled groan in the background.

“It’s um, it’s about Sherlock. I need you to tell me something.” John cleared his throat.

Mycroft’s tone softened considerably, “Sure. Anything. Go ahead.”

“Did he,” John cleared his throat again. It was getting harder and harder to speak, “Did he by any chance leave a ring in your possession?” he grimaced as his voice caught on the last few words.

Silence and phone static.

Finally Mycroft answered, “Yes, he did. You must understand, I didn’t tell you because I thought it would be that much harder for you to let him go – sentimentality is such a bother. I can bring it ‘round tomorrow if you’d like.”

“Mmm, yeah, tomorrow,” John was trembling.

“But how did you know?”

John swallowed back tears, “It’s not important. Thank you.” He hung up.

Before he could lose his nerve, John walked over to his desk and opened the drawer. The moonlight peeking in between the half-open curtains did nothing to brighten the appearance of the dull black Sig Sauer or the matching clip lying next to it. The ghost held John’s left hand in both of his, while John’s right hand held the pistol. It shook.

“Sometimes, I think I trust you too much.” John said softly, before placing the gun in his mouth.

He pulled the trigger.

 

\--

 

Sherlock heard a gunshot and sprinted up the stairs, fumbling with the keys Mrs. Hudson had given him. He burst through the door and all the gears in his mind stopped for a moment, startled by the incomprehensibility of the scene. The moonlight was bright. Too bright. In the middle of the room were two embracing figures that seemed to glow slightly. John? And...

Before Sherlock could get a good look at his doppelganger, its features started to shift, morphing into another all too familiar face.

Moriarty.

The apparition was grinning, its face radiant with demonic glee. John, now ethereal, gasped in horror as he looked first at his captor and then at Sherlock; and finally, at the crumpled mass by the desk. Sherlock followed John’s eyes and saw the blood pooling from his friend’s corpse.

“I’m sorry, I –“ John’s exclamation was cut short as Moriarty firmly clamped a hand over his mouth.

The demon turned to Sherlock, “Surprised to see me? I do love a good acting role. And this silk dressing gown is just divine. Anyway,” his face turned suddenly serious, “I made a deal with one of the higher-ups, and now John’s all mine. Did you really think you had won after that pitiful attempt to outsmart me three years ago? We had an agreement; you chose to live. And now I’m taking my half. Looks like I am literally going to burn the heart out of you. There’s a lot of fire where I’m taking him, if that wasn’t already clear.” Moriarty laughed, triumphant, “But as much as I’d like to catch up with my favorite detective, I really do have to go. One soul can only buy so much time up here, you know. I’ll be waiting for you – you still owe me that handshake,” he waggled his fingers tauntingly towards Sherlock before beginning to fade.

Only a soft whisper escaped Sherlock’s lips before the two glowing figures disappeared completely into the darkness of the room.

“John.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Much like John, I need to learn to let go. So that’s what I tried to do with this one – publish it here before I have time to become too unsatisfied and get stuck in a re-writing loop. I have to remind myself that I’m trying to entertain, not win any awards (ha). If you need something to soften the angst of this story, know that Lestrade was the source of the background noise during Mycroft’s call. You’re welcome.
> 
> As always, critical feedback is more than welcome. And thank you for reading.


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